


Poignant

by FadedSepia



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Gen, Present Tense, Serious timeline liberties taken, Side-Character Focused, Suggested romance with central minor character and OC, death of non-major character, possibly crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-18
Updated: 2017-11-18
Packaged: 2019-02-04 00:20:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12759243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FadedSepia/pseuds/FadedSepia
Summary: A new year is arrived, bringing with it the promise of something better, though he isn’t too hopeful about that. Perhaps tonight is better spent in reminiscence than celebration.  In the first hours of the new year, Pagan sits on his bed, and he remembers.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [predilection](https://archiveofourown.org/users/predilection/gifts).



> Many thanks to Predilection for the seed that grew into this idea. Additional thanks to Talliya, lbro009, and Kangofu, and everyone who encouraged me during the 23 hour day that birthed this fic.
> 
> Despite attempts to follow the timeline well, there may be some inconsistencies or places where this doesn’t line up perfectly; portions of the GW timelines are ill-defined.
> 
> Additional notes will be at the end of the final chapter.
> 
> Please don’t yell at me for spelling Pagan’s name incorrectly. It’s on purpose, I promise.

|~|~|~|

It is just now January 195, according to the clock, and Pagan is finally finishing with his after-party duties. The kitchen staff is keeping everything well in hand, so he leaves them to themselves. The Darlians are ready to retire for bed. Young Miss Relena is at least in her room, which, when dealing with a fourteen-year-old girl, is an accomplishment in itself. He sees off the last of the New Year’s guests, and locks up the house.

It is another half hour yet before he makes his way back to his attic room, steps light lest he wake the sleeping girl below. He shrugs off his jacket, hanging it back in its place at the end of a row of identical suitcoats. He does the same with his collared shirt and pants, though he has some difficulty with the latter. His knee is acting up, again, and he rubs at the zipper-like scar; he’ll put some analgesic ointment on it before he does to sleep. He is fifty-three, and despite everything, he still wonders how he can feel so old.

A new year is arrived, bringing with it the promise of something better, though he isn’t too hopeful about that. Someone sets off a last firework in the distance, and he shakes his head at the memories. Perhaps tonight is better spent in reminiscence than celebration.

Leaving his closet, he makes his way quietly over to the dresser beside his bed. He reaches deep into the second drawer – full of socks, folded, all black – to grasp onto the firebox he keeps in the back. It is battered with age and wear, like his hands, his face. Like his heart. It is a memory in itself, a painful one, and he considers leaving it closed. He knows that carrying it even now is dangerous, that it risks everything he’s sacrificed to this point, but it is all he has, now. He slides the dials into their familiar slots, lifts the lid with reverence.

The contents spill out onto his comforter: the badges and the pistol; the pressed flower and twigs; the ribbon and the medal, the letter, the child's book and the little ringed pin, and all manner of small bits and bobs and sorrows that he keeps tucked away. In the first hours of the new year, Samuel J. Pagan sits on his bed, and he remembers.

|~|~|~|


	2. Chapter 2

|~|~|~|

It’s May 175 and Johannes S. Pargan is two months out from finishing his final supplementary training, only one month out from his birthday. He’ll turn thirty-three just five weeks after Colonel Ballantyne arrives to take morning roll.

The gold-trimmed crimson jacket of her royal guard uniform is vibrant among the tan and olive drab of the fresh re-enlisted and new recruits; like a cardinal amidst a flock of titmice. Her coal dark hair sits in a mass of braids atop her head, the one soft part of a face and stance that is all harsh angles and clipped steps.

His unit is brought, all fifty of them into separate rooms, and sat down for questions. There is a polygraph. One-way glass. A review panel. Rifleman at the door. And, repeatedly interspersed among the rapid fire inquiry and unnerving silence, the same five questions.

 _Is he married or planning to be_? No.  
_Does he have any children?_ No.  
_Will he accept a years-long assignment?_ Yes.  
_What is his loyalty to the crown?_ Absolute.  
_What would he sacrifice for the good of Sanc?_ Everything.

It’s fourteen hours, and his vision is blurry by the time he stumbles back out into the hallway. Elvgren, having come out of the room next door, is slumped onto the floor and groaning; Vargas is retching into one of the bins while Berardinis tries to calm him down, her voice a strained whisper. He can hear Dougherty and Frahm from around the corner, and they sound as confused as he feels. He and Loomis haul Gilbert to his feet as the rest of the unit begins to coalesce further down the hallway. The Colonel is back, and they struggle into file against the wall, every one fighting not to lean into it.

The Colonel makes her way down their row, nodding to herself, and occasionally pulling someone out of line. She pulls Loomis ahead of him, and Elvgren behind. It is only on her second pass that she even spares him a glance, tugging him forward sharply. Once they are divided, those not chosen are sent away first. The remaining thirty are bustled into the mess hall, ordered to eat, wash, then moved into a smaller set of barracks. No one sleeps that night.

|~|

The next three months are a blur of training that is both intriguing and insane: elocution, mounted riflery, child psychology, improvised weapon development, tablescape design, involuntary asset recruitment, ballroom dancing. They spend three weeks on live-fire drills preventing small dogs and pigs from being shot, during which Sunbloom almost loses an eye. And, all throughout, Colonel Ballantyne tells them nothing.

At night, in their bunks, Elvgren says they’re training to be spies, or maybe sleeper agents. Berardinis says he’s an idiot. Pargan wonders why he didn’t go in for additional training sooner, and how he got stuck in a company with so many younger soldiers; everyone else who made it this far is barely out of into their twenties, if that old. Vargas tells him to fuck off; also that Elvgren is way off mark, and this is a new experimental torture. He rolls over, wishing they would shut up. It will be another nine weeks before they learn anything, before his world changes. For now, he only wishes that it was over, that he was home.

|~|~|~|

It is September 175, and Pargan is startled awake by an exceedingly early reveille. Only twenty of them are called up on this Tuesday, told to dress, leave their jackets behind, and report to the north parade ground before mess. His fingers are shaking – the omnipotent THEY never tell them anything – and Dougherty hisses between her teeth that his moustache isn’t combed properly as they come to stand at rest.

There is a commotion on the ground, the tell-tale bustle that always accompanies the very important, and Ballantyne orders them to attention. Someone at the end of the row – Elvgren, perhaps? – gasps, but he remains eyes forward as he should. It is some moments before the cause of the commotion steps into his line of sight; King Marticus, with their pregnant Queen at his right side. Their monarch’s face is pensive as he passes down the row, bending now and again to hold counsel with his wife. Ballantyne trails behind at a respectable distance, flipping through her clipboard when they speak to her.

Every now and again, the royal couple stops, shakes someone’s hand, gives them an envelope, and Ballantyne pulls them out of line. On the first pass, they ignore him, but take Frahm and Dougherty from either side. Six are taken on that first pass alone, four on the second. There are ten of them yet in the line when the monarchs return for their third pass. Then Loomis is chosen, and Pargan is one of nine remaining.

As they reach him, again, the Queen glances in his direction, dark blonde curls framing her smile. “I think he’s an excellent choice. Doesn’t he remind you so much of dear Georg? He has a soft face.” He will not learn for some weeks that Georg was the Queen’s favourite childhood hound.

His King nods, right hand tugging slightly at his beard, left hand supporting his right arm. “An excellent choice.” The King reaches forward to shake his hand, and the Queen gifts him with the last of the envelopes. “May you discharge your duties with courage, dignity, and honour.”

Pargan remains in stunned silence, even as their King steps away, escorting the Queen off the parade ground. There is another flurry of commotion as the royal couple leaves, then Ballantyne dismisses the letter recipients. They are bustled off of the parade ground, ordered to eat, wash, then return to their barracks. In an hour, they will be on an official transport back to the capitol to complete their training at the palace.

Berardinis is first to open the letter, almost screaming in the hall as she covers her mouth with a napkin. They are now members of the newly created third unit of the house guard to the royal family, tasked with protecting the coming heir. They toast their new Prince or Princess with orange juice and coffee, celebrating as best they can.

|~|

The barracks are empty when they return after breakfast. On each of their beds is a crisp new uniform jacket – crimson, with gold trim – and a numbered badge. Pargan has very little to pack in his rucksack, even less for his firebox. He tucks the official letter of placement they received from the King and Queen next to a smoke-grenade pin from their live-fire exercises, then throws the box in with his few belongings. Dougherty insists on straightening his jacket before they leave the barracks, the Colonel ushering them out into four sleek black cars.

|~|~|~|

It is January 176, and the young Crown Prince is completing his first month at the palace. Pargan is assigned the graveyard watch, and stands at ease in a corner of the nursery by the window. Elvgren and Frahm are outside the door. The Prince’s nanny is snoring in the adjacent room.

He wishes that he had gotten the day shift, but consoles himself with the fact that babies aren’t terribly interesting, at least for the first few weeks. From what Colonel Ballantyne says – in a cloyingly pleasant voice that couldn’t be farther from her normal demeaner – the young Prince is a quiet baby, anyway.

He is so still, looking like a tiny doll, and he stays very quiet unless he’s wet. Some nights Pargan worries that he might be dead. Some nights, the little Prince is awake, staring back up at him as the guard leans over his bassinette.

Tonight, though, his Prince is fussy. He considers waking the woman in the other room, but thinks to check on little Prince Milliardo first. His Highness isn’t wet, and quiets almost as soon as he’s lifted out of his tiny bed.

Pargan rocks his Prince gently as he walks, and soon the tiny royal is drowsing in his arms. This, he decides, is at least more engaging than watching him sleep from the corner. Besides – he chuckles at the thought of using something from all of those seemingly nonsensical courses – holding children helps with their development.

In the months that follow, this becomes a regular routine. At least, until the young Prince begins to talk, refusing to sleep until a member of the guard walks him a few times around the room. Milliardo does not settle for anyone else, little fists balled at his side, repeating “No red, no sleep” until either his parents or his nanny acquiesce. Pargan never admits to knowing why; though Dougherty has her suspicions, it is Loomis who blames him. He is a decent enough man not to deny it.

|~|~|~|

It is November 179, and the entirety of the Prince’s Guard is assembled before their quarters, waiting on the discretion of their Monarchs. The Queen arrives, and for a moment she appears to be alone. The King is away – diplomatic business somewhere – but the little Prince is there in his stead. His right elbow rests in his left hand, right hand gently rubbing his chin; an imitation of his father in miniature. As she did years earlier, Colonel Ballantyne, acting commander of their unit, trails behind.

Alongside his mother, the Crown Prince walks to inspect their row, tiny legs scissoring to keep up with the Queens’s long strides. Pargan can recognize the subtle hints of joy slipping through Milliardo’s air of seriousness; it is clear that the young Prince feels very grown-up in his silver trimmed jacket and blue short-pants.

They make the sweeping pass several times, the Queen bending to hold counsel with her son, both gesturing here and there to where they stand in line. Now they begin the fourth pass, and the young Prince is practicing his marching and trying to look very official, standing quite straight as he and his mother come to a stop. Prince Milliardo motions for the colonel to come over, and Ballantyne, terror of the house guard herself, kneels to let the boy whisper in her ear.

“An excellent decision, your Highness.”

The Prince looks very pleased with himself, indeed, and nods. With a chubby hand, he tugs gently at his mother’s skirt; she pats his head before addressing the small assemblage.

“Pargan, step forward.”

He is startled, and forgets himself a moment until Vargas uses a finger to nudge at his hip.

“Kneel.”

He does, just in time to see young Milliardo take something from Colonel Ballantyne. With as much dignity as any three-year-old can muster, his little Prince walks over to where he kneels. Pargan can see that he’s holding something metallic – it looks like an officer’s pin – in his hand. The tiny royal nods to the small assemblage and turns back to look at his mother as she addresses them.

“Today, we will select members of the newly created fourth royal house guard under the command of Guardsman J. S. Pargan.” The Queen nods politely to her son, and he turns back to Pargan, still kneeling before him.

“I charge you with the protection of my new younger sibling.” The Prince’s chubby hands lift the heavy pin, jabbing it sharply into his chest through his lapel as the memorized speech continues. “May you discharge your duties with courage, dignity, and honour.”

He’s sure there will be blood on his undershirt, but it’s worth it as Prince Milliardo leans in, foregoing a handshake for a hug, speaking in the overly loud conspiratory whisper that only a child can. “I told Mother that you were the _best_ one.”

His feels unprepared for command. There is an entire unit to create, and new guards to choose. But that is for tomorrow. Tonight, Pargan celebrates his promotion, wrangles Dougherty into a dance, and pesters an inebriated Ballantyne for counsel.

|~|~|~|

It is April 180, and his hand is shaking as the little Princess is placed in his arms, four weeks early; he is the first person outside the royal family and the doctors to hold her. Her face is still red and ugly – as only a newly born baby can be; both hideous and endearing – and she lets out a wet fussy cry as she turns her face into her blanket. Her tiny hand clutches at the pink and green fabric, and he fights to refrain from cooing.

“Pargan, let me see.”

He looks back to the Queen, still reclining on her pillows, and she nods slowly, eyelids drooping. It is the end of a long day for her. The King is still away, and he knows she must be exhausted.

With great care, he takes a knee beside where the Prince sits, holding the Princess so that she and her brother are face to face. Milliardo reaches forward with deliberate care to touch a lock of dark blonde hair, so like their mother’s, brushing it away from her eyes. “She’s like a doll… so tiny…”

“As were you once, my prince.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes, certainly. I was there.” The Prince smiles at that.

Princess Relena sneezes, startling her brother, and begins wailing. On reflex, he begins to rock her, taking a moment before realizing that he should give her back to her mother. His Queen takes back the Princess with a knowing look. She nods surreptitiously in her son’s direction, and he takes the hint. There are guards stationed outside the doors, and on the balcony; his presence isn’t needed at the moment, and it was a great favour that he was allowed entrance at all.

“Your Highness, perhaps we should get some lunch and allow the Queen to rest?”

Prince Milliardo considers it, brows drawn in, lips pressed together, his four-year old face overly pensive. He accedes with a dignified, “Very well,” offering Pargan his tiny hand. With a final perfunctory bow to the Queen and Princess, they take their leave.

It will only be two weeks before he realizes how unlike her older brother his Princess Relena will be. She will cry fitfully at all hours of the night. She will be underweight and colicky for months; he will become adept at cleaning vomit off of his uniform. She will put her little lungs to the test, practicing the vocal projection that will one day sway nations and empires. She will take her first steps perfectly, and shall crash into the highboy amid great commotion for her second.

But that is for the future. For today, he and the young Prince make an adventure of foraging for something both suitably healthy and reasonably palatable in the hospital cafeteria. His young Prince has a grand time playing army with his pea soldiers and mashed potato castle.

|~|~|~|

It is December 180, though the clock shows that it will soon be 181. This is the first major royal event at which both the Crown Prince and little Princess have been in attendance. The princess dozes in her tableside bassinette, dark blonde curls held up in two tiny blue ribbons, chewing absently on her teddy’s ear. The Prince is once again in his favourite suit, playing with his silver buttons as he fights to stay awake. There are no other children his age.

The Prince and Princess’ Guard are in attendance, though not all of them are working. Still, Pargan shoos away the young server traying champagne as he skirts the edge of the crowd, moving toward the east hall entrance. All of them are _technically_ on a rotating duty tonight. Sunbloom is being kind and covering his post for the next two hours.

However, neither he nor Frush miss the opportunity to rib their commander as he leaves, reminding him that his partner is a terrible dancer. It’s not that important tonight; most of the party’s attendees are too deep into the holiday spirits to dance well either. Besides, Pargan can think of better ways to spend time with Dougherty – “Mara, please” – than dancing.

They both know better, but that is of little comfort when they can only snatch brief moments alone like this. They suit each other. He struggles every time their shifts overlap not to tuck back the ruddy fly-aways that are forever escaping from her braid.

She is waiting for him back at the barracks, festooned in naught but a wide silk ribbon and a sprig of mistletoe. He does not regret taking an hour longer than he had promised.

Still, he can’t stifle the delighted chuckle as he begins to hear the sound of someone setting of the first fireworks of the new year in the distance. A new year is arrived, bringing with it the promise of something better, and he is hopeful about that. Their assignment is renewable after six years. It isn’t so long until he can pass this duty on to someone else – probably Frahm – and begin his life, again. But he feels tonight is better spent on _celebration_ than planning. Dougherty happily agrees.

|~|~|~|

It is July 182, and the electric clarion of the alarm tells him that the first perimeter walls are being breached. They are prepared for this, and contingencies are in place, but it is still chaotic. Sunbloom pulls out the stand-in dummies of the Prince and Princess – kept to ride-along when security calls for multiple motorcades – that they will use as a distraction. The duties of the Prince and Princess’ Guard are to the royal children first; there is another regiment each for the King and Queen.

Loomis struggles through the door with the Prince under one arm, Sunbloom is behind him, trying his best to soothe the wailing Princess. Pargan reaches for the girl – Where in seven hells is the rest of his unit?! – and begins to rock her.

There is no time to waste. No way of knowing if those missing are fighting or dead. Less than half of the two guard units have made it to the saferoom hidden at the back of the guard barracks. Still, ten are better than none. The plan is to break off into pairs, with each taking either the Prince or Princess, or one of the dummies, while two stay behind to cover their exit and maintain communications.

He and Mozert take the Princess. Dougherty and Elvgren take the Prince. Berardinis, Vargas, Frush, and Petty take the dummies, careful to hold them like living children. Sunbloom and Ballantyne take the door, nearly shooting Loomis as he keys his way in.

He is fresh from the second perimeter, where no one can reach either the King’s Guard or the Queen’s. The attackers are shooting to kill, and Pargan can see that he’s been hit. There is no more time. Loomis takes Ballantyne’s place – as the head of the Prince’s Guard her face is recognizable, so she and the decoy may draw some fire away from the actual Prince and Princess – barricading the door with Sunbloom’s help.

The rest of the guard makes their way into the narrow, long-forgotten construction passages between the palace walls. At every fork, two of them break off down another passage. Elvgren, Dougherty, and the crown Prince separate last. She smiles sadly, giving his collar a familiar tug, and she is gone.

|~|

The passageway takes them behind a set of two-way mirrors in the front receiving room, of all places, and Mozert stifles a scream behind him. Pargan sees, but tries his hardest not to think about the slowly darkening stains on the antique carpets. Why their Queen’s arms are bent at such angles. Where their King’s head is.

 He reaches back to tug her along. Urges her to focus on which direction she thinks they should take. Anything to keep her in the now because he knows he can’t handle this alone. She chooses well, and the passage takes them out to the north wall, giving them some maneuvering room around the initial breach point at the northwest corner. Relena fusses only once, as Mozert takes the little Princess long enough for him to slip off his uniform jacket.

They leave their coats in the passageway, keeping their small service pistols. Mozert creeps forward, and he follows, both using the hedges as best they can for cover. The grounds are chaos, but the Federation doesn’t have any air support, and that is the only blessing they will get tonight.

It is the wall that poses the problem. Wedging between the weathered stone and the trunk of a decorative pear, Pargan manages to mount the wall. Mozert passes up the Princess. She moves to follow, but the branch is new; it snaps under her weight. Somehow, even with the commotion, a group of soldiers notices, breaking off from the closest firefight.

He’s forced to wrench her up with his free arm, and her weight overbalances him. He lands wrong, his knee screaming at him. And now the Princess is screaming at him, too, but at least she’s safe. They are already running.

And then Mozert isn’t. He can’t hear her footfalls, and glances back to see her standing, falling into a Weaver stance. He’s almost to the tree-line when he hears the first shot. He never learns whether it’s her shot or theirs, but she never shoots in his nightmares.

Relena wails, again, as something explodes inside the palace proper. It is another two months before he learns that Berardinis was cornered near the armoury.

|~|~|~|


	3. Chapter 3

|~|~|~|

It is August 182 when they finally escape over the western border. Now abroad, his surname sounds common enough not to cause him trouble getting out of the country. He trades away his pistol for a motorbike with a sidecar, swaddling his Princess in as best as he can.

In the confusion after the collapse of Sanc, he has no trouble dropping the silent ‘r’ and establishing himself as _Samuel J. Pagan_. The swell of foreign nationals overwhelms most of the established border patrols, who are only too happy to let a refugee father and his child cross unimpeded. With his pistol gone, he is an unarmed man, and poses little threat. Relena is young enough to pass when dressed as a boy – though she fusses when he takes out her ribbons – and clings to him so tightly that no one has any trouble believing she’s his son.

It takes five more weeks, and nearly all of the favours he has to call in, but they arrive at the estate just north of the J.A.P. point with little trouble. The little Princess is sick with another cold, tiny limbs shaking in her fever, but it is a minor thing when he thinks of how easily her little body could have become a crumpled heap beside her mother’s.

|~|

Mr. Darlian is very accommodating; replacing the entirety of the household staff leaves no one to question from where the newly adopted child and badly limping butler have come. Mareen is wary of him, to be sure, but he manages to make himself useful. If nothing else, he is an excellent driver.

At night, with the household quiet and the alarm set, he takes his bike up into the mountains to check his emergency radio. There’s been no communication from the capitol since Sunbloom’s message that the ministry building had been razed. He expects to hear something, from either Elvgren’s team or Dougherty’s, before the week is out, though he isn’t too hopeful about that.

Pagan – he must be very careful to leave out that ‘r’ now that he is signing for the household deliveries – will come here every night for naught, until well after the leaves have begun to turn, and the ribbon and bunting of the holidays have gone up around the house.

|~|~|

It is January 183, and, though the shelling has been over for a month, small riots and firefights are still breaking out almost daily. The Federation’s peacekeepers are regular targets of guerrilla attacks, but there are simply too many. As much as it galls him, Pagan knows that _now_ is not the time to fight to re-establish Sanc; their Princess is too young, their Prince possibly missing or worse.

He detours through the old palace, evading the sporadic patrols in spite of the sharp pain that still shoots up his leg, taking one of the emergency exits back to the safe room behind the barracks to retrieve his firebox. There is nothing else left for him here, not now. Loomis, such as is left of him, is slumped in the corner. Someone – he can only hope it was Sunbloom, and not a Federation soldier seeking a trophy – has taken his pistol and jacket. He unclips the security badge from the dead man’s waist, covering him with a bedsheet before slipping back out through the shoddy perimeter.

Neither Vargas nor Dougherty are at the rendezvous point at the edge of the capitol. He hides his bike under a tarp beyond the treeline and waits. It is another hour before Dougherty arrives, boots crunching in the snow, smattered in blood that he hopes is not her own. She leans into him, voice raw as she speaks. “We got him out, but they noticed Elvgren’s ID in Luxembourg… He didn’t…”

She doesn’t finish her sentence. Doesn’t cry either. Only shudders, then tugs at the wool of his coat. They stand for a long moment in the snow. He tucks back a few of the fly-aways that have escaped from her braid. “Someone followed me here. They know he was with me... You should know where he is.”

“No.”

She glares up at him, angry for a moment, but he only looks at her. And Dougherty – _Mara_ – understands. If no one _knows_ where the Prince is, then he’s a safe as he _can_ be. Better that the heir should be lost than dead.

She hands him her service revolver and ID badge, kept at almost a mirror shine since the day it was issued. Despite all that has happened, it is that acquiescence that brings him to tears today.

“Stay with her, Jon.”

“I will.”

The .25 is loud in the pre-dawn, but Dougherty’s landing is muffled by the snow. He tries his hardest not to think about the slowly spreading dark stain in the snow. He doesn’t have a sheet, but does the best he can with the camouflage tarp he’d thrown over his bike. Pagan will keep her badge and revolver in the firebox, next to Loomis’ – next to Pargan’s – though guilt will prevent him from ever wiping away the flecks of blood.

|~|~|~|

It is October 186, and, though life has slipped into a stable routine, he already finds himself going grey. Perhaps it is genetic? Still, life in the Darlian household isn’t unpleasant.

Pagan wakes his young Miss each morning precisely one hour before breakfast. They select an appropriate dress, usually pink, and a set of ribbons, always blue to highlight her dark blond curls, before their meal. Then it is time to dress, fix her hair, and drive her to the school. His Princess is very particular about being early, so they often arrive a full hour before her classes start, leaving him to entertain her in the car.

He does not have very many happy stories, but she doesn’t seem to mind. The few stories he has are about her, stories her mother and father never tell – _can’t_ ever tell – about her childhood. Her first birthday. Her first words.

Sometimes, she asks him to tell stories about himself, but he only smiles, saying that there isn’t much to tell. His Princess pouts, turning her little nose up. “Grown-ups never tell you anything.” He tells her that she is absolutely correct, and gently pats her head as he pulls her from the car seat. She laughs, waving, as she runs up the brick steps to her classroom.

The next six hours are always a blur. There are itineraries to organize, meals to plan, flowers to arrange. Mr. Darlian’s suits to send to the cleaners’, and Mrs. Darlian’s dresses to be taken in at the alterationist’s, and the young Miss tries her best to stay tidy, but she is six and precocious. Most days, given the way Mareen says it, Pagan is certain that word only exists because _‘too damn-much trouble’_ isn’t a fit phrase for polite company. He doesn’t mind the workload; keeping busy is the only way he can keep his mind clear.

Of course, there are always activities after school as well. She has riding lessons, piano lessons, tutoring sessions to keep her at the top of her class. Then they drive back home, and the evening routine begins. First a snack, then homework, a late supper with her parents, then a bath – with extra bubble soap and the tub jets on so that she disappears into a sea of pink popcorn – followed by a book story before bed.

She likes the stories of brave knights best, but she doesn’t like it when he shows her the pictures. She doesn’t like that the knights are all men, and she doesn’t like their armour. She says the knight’s colours, black and green, are wrong. He indulges her. “And what colour should they be?”

She is already older now than he ever remembers her brother, and doesn’t take kindly to his coddling tone. Once again, her tiny nose is up in the air as she explains. “They should be red and gold. That’s what brave knights wear.”

He is taken aback by her answer, and presses her on why she thinks that. She grows exasperated, as only a child speaking to an idiot adult can. She thinks that because it is the truth, and she doesn’t want to explain. Still, she promises not to tease him, even if he is silly and old. As he tucks her in, he wonders just how much she remembers.

It gives him something to ponder as he makes his way back out into the mountains on the edge of the city for his monthly radio briefing. Pagan is not exactly sure how many of them made it, but he knows at least two guards are still alive.

Vargas has imbedded himself with a group of Sweepers, but has nothing new to report. Possible leads on the Prince trickle in from Frahm every few months. They may not have found him yet, but the other man assures him that the Federation hasn’t either. Pagan admires his ability at deep cover – in 195, it will get him killed during the coupe, but that is not today – and thanks him before they disconnect. He can rest a little easier after the update.

He is back in the house, in his pyjamas, and almost asleep when he hears the knock at his bedroom door. It is soft and tentative, so he isn’t surprised to see the young Miss on the other side of the door. She is barefoot and shivering, having made the journey up the narrow attic loft steps accompanied only by her teddy.

He picks her up, determined the tuck her back in, but she refuses to let go once he gets her back to her room. She tells him of her nightmare, with the dying knights and the dragon’s footsteps that shake the earth and sound like fireworks.

Still holding her, he begins to pace slowly around her room, rocking his Princess gently as he walks, as he hasn’t done for many years. Soon his little Miss is asleep, and he tucks her in beside her teddy. In the months that follow, this will become routine whenever she has nightmares. When she is safely at school in the morning, he locks the picture book in his firebox, safely away with the rest of the past.

|~|~|~|

It is September 191, and his Princess – because she will never be _just_ Relena in his mind – is kidnapped. He is not as young as he once was; it’s been nearly a decade since he saw anything close to actual combat, and his knee wastes no time in reminding him of that. But it is that pain that spurs him on, a reminder of how much is yet left to be lost. He is already armed and creeping forward amongst the hedges when the new model mobile suit – sleek and red – lands beyond the fence.

The pilot jumps down from the hatch, aims, shoots. The kidnapper writhes, groaning but disarmed, on the ground. One threat neutralized, but Pagan still doesn’t know this new man’s intentions as he walks toward Relena. The boy’s intentions, actually. He can’t be more than a teenager, all knees and elbows despite looking the part of an adult in his uniform.

Still holding his pistol, the masked face turns in his direction, and he realizes that his crouch isn’t as steady as he’d hoped. He freezes, knowing that the stranger notices what Relena does not; her faithful butler, crouched in a modified kneeling stance, small pistol aimed squarely at this stranger’s heart, eyes cold.

The young man turns away, holsters his pistol, kneels before Relena in apology. He calls her Princess.

And Pagan knows. Wonders how he couldn’t have recognized it sooner. The silvery hair, the perfectly measured tone, the ever diplomatic paltering without outright lying. The gentle way he takes Relena’s hand, bowing his head in a perfect imitation of his father.

His Prince is alive. His Prince is a soldier.

He collapses back into the hedge, fingers clenching at the dirt beneath his palms. He’s kept absolute faith in Dougherty’s word that their Prince would be safe, and so he has never wept for the boy. Now, he does. After all that the boy had to lose, all that he had taken from him, his Prince is still unchanged, and yet, that little Prince is dead. The over-serious boy – who he still remembers in short pants and silver buttons – is gone, as dead as Jon Pargan; in his place is a killer in a gold-trimmed, crimson jacket, a vibrant contrast against the drab green and brown of the estate in autumn.

He doesn’t know whether to praise Dougherty or curse her, but he can’t deny that this is a brilliant deception. Where better to hide their Prince than among the very men that hunted him? Who should ever suspect the lost Prince of pacifist Sanc to make his living fighting the wars of the Alliance?

Pagan is laughing in silent hysteria, tears streaking his face, as his Prince turns to leave. The mask hides his eyes, but the Prince inclines his head, lower face held pensively, lips pressed together just as they had been when he was a boy, when he was still playing at being so very grown up. And then he is gone, riding the stirrup up into the mobile suit’s cockpit before her disappears back over the horizon.

The butler does not go back into the manor until nearly an hour after Relena returns home and tells her mother about her exciting adventure. Her father is still on base because the lockdown isn’t yet lifted. Mareen is horrified and cloying by turns, scolding her daughter for running off until the young girl storms up to his attic room.

Speaking with the rapt admiration that only a girl of eleven can muster, his Princess tells him of the gallant star prince that rescued her. It is as she is describing the brave soldier’s departure that she notices his dirtied hands, the fresh tear that escapes down his face.

Pagan can only tell her how proud he is of her bravery, and how glad he is she is safe. His Princess reaches forward to hug him, reminding him that she is always _very_ careful. He refrains from remarking on her hypocrisy, but she still pouts when he laughs at her words.

“Mother trusts you to keep me safe, so I’ll be fine.”

She crosses her arms, hair flouncing over her shoulder as she turns her nose up. Her words stop his chuckle, pulling a knot in his chest. Her mother trusted him to keep the Princess safe, and her mother trusts him to look after Relena now. Pagan stands, slowly beginning to usher her toward his door. “Of course, Miss Relena, but I must clean up before supper.”

|~|~|~|


	4. Chapter 4

|~|~|~|

It is April 195, and Pagan is waiting outside the school gates for his young Mistress. It has only been a few days since her last _adventure_ , and he has spent the entire day in the parking lot. He cannot leave her alone, not now.

Every man must have a purpose; for the last fifteen years, she has been his. He’s already heard back from Vargas, who can only tell him that the pilots – he calls them boys and Pagan flashes back to memories of his Prince, still so young, and the red mobile suit – are driven and dangerous. He doesn’t _think_ they will kill her, but there is no guarantee.

|~|

He tries everything he can think of, short of literally locking the young Miss into some sort of holding cell, but it is pointless. With Mr. Darlian dead, Relena is determined to follow that boy, and he cannot force her to see reason. So, instead, he readies his small case – rucksack gone over a decade – though he still has little to pack. Socks, shirts, pants, and a spare jacket.

After a long moment, he adds the firebox as well. He’s more likely to lose his life than the old box, and it will lead to too many questions if he doesn’t survive this. It will be months before they return, and he will be glad he packed the battered little case. He doesn’t know it, but he will be grateful for having Dougherty’s pistol along. Though, at the moment, Pagan doesn’t ever expect to use that gun, again.

|~|~|~|

It is August 196 and Pagan prays that all of this is finally over. The experiences from the yearlong war are already more than enough to re-start his nightmares. That this final confrontation involves a child soldier – an honest to God _child_ at the head of an army – is more than he had prepared to handle in this lifetime.

Tossing the paper cone into a bin, he leaves the hospital lounge, passing through the special security checkpoint, heading back to Relena and her companions in the private waiting room. The little girl is still in surgery, and his teenaged charge insists on staying until it is finished. If he was younger, he would worry about leaving her, but he remembers from first-hand experience how well she conducts herself.

And, besides, she is not alone. That dark-haired colonial boy – who he sees is still figuring out pants – is with her. He hasn’t killed her yet. Pagan has seen enough to know that even now, battered and exhausted, he’s still more than a match for anyone who might wish to attack her.

There are two more with her when he returns, each draped across one of the low waiting room couches; one silent, the other an endless font of words that are only half-sensible to his exhausted brain. He sits as far from the loud one as he can. The braided boy isn’t unpleasant, but Pagan is very tired.

His seat sets him across from the taller of the newcomers, who stares back at him from across the tiny room. There is a long moment of appraisal – they haven’t seen each other since the both of them were in Antartica – before the young man nods, the slight tilt of his head almost imperceptible. Pagan wonders if he should be concerned at recognition from a mercenary, but closes his eyes.

When nothing else catches fire or explodes before the end of the day, he finally allows himself to actually relax. He tries to focus on the little good that has come out of today. Nobody _he_ knows is dead. Although he has disappeared, again, he at least has proof positive that Milliardo is alive. Despite his best effort, Relena’s boyfriend didn’t manage to kill himself like an idiot today.

Still, this entire thing is a mess – that Preventers woman isn’t telling them anything – and he hasn’t slept in days. His vision is blurry, and he can feel the tremor in his hands as he leans further back into the chair. The world keeps changing, and he just doesn’t want to remember anymore.

|~|~|~|


	5. Chapter 5

|~|~|~|

It is September 199, and Samuel J. Pagan is feeling every one of his fifty-seven years as he dresses for _an event_. His Princess – though both she and her brother have rejected the crown – has asked him to dress for a formal dinner, but he is at a loss for what to wear. It isn’t that he misunderstands the dress code.

All of his suit jackets are gone. Even the formal blue coat set aside for diplomatic occasions, with its high collar and white trim, is missing. He has only his two pairs of fitted black suit trousers and a row of white collared shirts.

He _knows_ what was in the closet yesterday. He isn’t old enough to have forgotten that. Perhaps Mrs. Darlian has gone over his head and sent them to be washed? He is embarrassed, he feels naked without a coat on after so many years, but goes down in his pants and shirttails to ask Mareen.

She ushers him out to the drive where a sleek black car is waiting. He is bustled inside, and the car rushes away from the Minister’s estate in Sanc, headed towards the innermost section of the capitol. The driver tells him it will be some time until he reaches the palace, that he must dress, and then the sliding window closes.

On the seat opposite sits a white box. The card inside is marked with the official seal, signed by both the Minister and the Regional Preventer’s Commander. His Princess and Prince. Beneath the layers of tissue he finds a numbered badge – battered, scratched, exactly the one he would swear _should_ have been in his firebox – and a crisp new crimson uniform jacket with gold trim.

|~|

When he arrives at the palace – rebuilt in the last three years, so much like it was that he can almost imagine it was never gone – the driver all but hands him out to a waiting servant. He follows the man through the maze of corridors, but his feet remember the way. He knows well before they arrive where he is headed, and the young porter folds into a gracious bow as he motions the older man into the rebuilt barracks of the house guard. Pagan glances into the corner, part of him still expecting to see whatever might yet remain of Loomis.

At the edge of his focus, he can hear the soft chatter in the room cease. He tugs his jacket lapels self-consciously – Dougherty had always been the one to do that, before – and looks up from the floor towards the conversation’s source.

The years have done nothing to soften Colonel Ballantyne, and though the braids adorning her head have lost their colour, the whiteness makes the harsh angles of that face even sharper, outlined as it is by the same style of crimson jacket they are all wearing.

Vargas is leaning heavily on a cane beside her, and Pagan remembers that the man mentioned losing a leg in that last battle of 195. Petty is seated beside the Colonel, his face beginning to line with age, yet red and puffy in that ugly way that only someone hiding tears can be. They both move toward him as he steps forward, but it is too late; Frush is already hugging him. It takes him a long moment before he returns her embrace.

It is almost an hour before anyone comes to get them – still, no one tells them anything – another sharply dressed porter appearing to line them up by rank. Pagan stands behind Ballantyne, startled that she has shrunk enough that he can now see over her head. He almost forgets himself as they begin walking back towards the ballrooms, but Vargas uses the cane to nudge at his hip.

|~|

They’re ushered up onto the main stage that’s been erected at one end of the grand ballroom. Relena is already there, behind a podium, leading the assembled audience to clap as they arrive. Her hair is stacked in a crown of braids atop her head, but a few strands are left loosely, styled, dark-blond curls framing her smiling face.

She’s speaking as the Foreign Minister now, but she will always be their Princess. He barely hears her speech, but she returns throughout to a few points. Relinquishing any chance for family. Forfeiting the best years of their lives. Remaining unfailingly loyal to the preservation of the Sanquian royal family. Sacrificing everything.

While she speaks, extolling virtues he barely remembers having, her brother makes his way down their row, taking his time to pin a medal carefully on every lapel before shaking the hand of each member of the old guard. His face is still pensive, but it suits him now; no longer a boy, but a man in his own right, looking ever so regal in his silver buttoned jacket and blue-trimmed pants.

When it is his turn, Milliardo seems very pleased with himself, indeed, as he carefully pins the heavy medal onto the jacket lapel with a steady hand, saying the words with practiced ease. “You have discharged your duty with courage, dignity, and honour.” 

Instead of the handshake he expects, his Prince pulls him in by his arm for a hug. He’s sure there are tears on his face, but it’s worth it as Commander Milliardo leans in, voice a hushed, conspiratory whisper. “I made sure _not_ to stick you this time.”

And then, just as he begins to process what is happening, it is over. They are squeezed together for the press, with their Prince and Princess at either end; five old bodies, but seven old souls, frozen in time by a myriad of flashing lights.

They are bustled down from the stage and over to long rows of dining tables, to eat, and toast, and then return for more pictures and interviews.

Since the end of the wars, this is the first major function in Sanc that both Relena and Milliardo have attended. The young Minister is taking time for another interview at the end of the banquet table, arm in arm with her fiancée. He is glad to see that the young man appears to finally understand pants.

The Commander is standing near the east hall entrance with that patient, dark-haired agent; from this angle, he can see her toying playfully with one of his silver buttons. Milliardo surveys the room, and they lock eyes for a moment. The younger man winks at him, usually pensive face showing a rare smile as the two of them slip out through the curtained doorway. They suit each other. He wonders if they will have children. He hopes they don’t inherit lungs like their aunt.

But that is for tomorrow. Tonight, Pargan remembers his comrades, shares stories of a younger Prince, dances with his Princess. Tonight, it is over, and he is home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my brain, I always heard something in the pronunciation of Pagan’s name that made me think there was a barely voiced ‘r’ in front of the ‘g.’  
>   
> I know Pagan looks much older than someone is in his 50s when the show starts, but I assume it's hard-living.
> 
> All of Pagan’s fellow guard members surnames are taken from vintage advertising, pulp, cheesecake, or pinup artists. If you didn’t recognize the names definitely look them up. Especially Olivia De Berardinis and Jessica Dougherty, who are both current artists. The other artists (deceased) are:  
> Joyce Ballantyne  
> Gillette (Gil) Elvgren  
> Art Frahm  
> Pearl Frush  
> Andrew Loomis  
> Zoë Mozert  
> George Petty  
> Haddon Sunbloom  
> Alberto Vargas
> 
> I couldn’t leave out the popcorn bubble bath that is so iconic of the Gundam Wing anime. Perhaps Relena and Treize bond over their mutual love of bubble baths when she is acting as queen of the earth sphere.
> 
> In Episode Zero, Zechs appears to zone out for a moment before he goes back to speaking to Relena following her rescue. Maybe he wasn’t staring off at nothing. Also, let’s assume Pagan can read lips.
> 
> Thanks to angel-no-crux on tumblr, for confirming that Pagan was at least alive in 197 in the comics.


End file.
